


Heaven, You're a lot like Heaven

by kingLATRANS



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, I think?, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Obsession, Overdosing, Recreational Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Sex, Worship, again pretty briefly, implied/referenced panic attack, really new here, sort of, very brief appearance of Ms McCall, very briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingLATRANS/pseuds/kingLATRANS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a boy that comes through the woods some days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven, You're a lot like Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second upload here, so i'm not too versed in the tagging business, my apologies.
> 
> However! If there is anything that should be tagged, or even perhaps a tag that doesn't quite qualify, please let me know.
> 
> I'll make adjustments as soon as possible.
> 
> Enjoy your tears!

_It worked somehow._

_He’s not sure how but it did._

-

 

     There’s a boy that comes through the woods some days. His heart seemingly beating out of him with a violence unparalleled that Derek had thought maybe his mind was playing with him. It sounded like a broken machine spinning, the parts smashing into its surroundings helplessly, but desperate to keep running.

 

-

 

     His boy’s hands are shaking, waiting for it to catch on. Desperate. Like always. The skin of his shoulder feels so smooth under Derek’s lips. So warm. He grazes the skin with his teeth and trails up his boy’s neck, nipping tentatively.

     The body his arms wrap around falls lax and loose, he can hear the heart of his heart slack from its anticipation. He drawls his tongue wide and hot along the hinge of his boy’s jaw while slowly- so carefully, he eases the needle from his lover’s arm.

     Derek takes a breath for his own anticipation before speaking his boy’s name like a mantra.

 

-

 

     Stiles. Stiles, Stiles is his name. It’s a strange name but his nonetheless and Derek loves everything about this boy that trudges through the forest seemingly at random. Every so often Stiles will look at his house as he passes. Sort of an inquisitive prying curiosity that makes Derek think he’d like to excavate the place.

     Lots of teenagers do, it’s a destroyed place. Toxic and deathly. And children are curious to a fault. Except for Stiles. Whose eyes shine like gold under a dragon’s belly, a fire burning all around. Sometimes they look extinguished and hollowed, but Derek thinks there must still be some embers in his house if the burnt thing can light his boy’s eyes up like that every time. Stiles’ skin is white, like the winter or freshly pasted vellum. His state is always unexpected and his breath leaves a sweet tinge on all the branches and green.

     Derek wants to meet his boy.

     Wants to touch.

 

-

 

     His boy murmurs lovely things in his voice, such an amazing voice. He’s so calm and Derek can almost taste his euphoria in his mouth. It’s so sweet. Stiles is breathless like always afterwards, is loose and sweet. His boy is always sweet, always- all the time. When he’s like this though, when he’s so- it’s easier to slide his fingers into his boy’s body, to stretch him on three of Derek’s digits until he moans like a song.

 

-

 

     It’s a staccato; the sound going is like a staccato. He hasn’t heard the sound in a long time. That’s a lie, he has- just, not this close. Which, in reality, isn’t all that close seeing as it’s coming from outside, some distance into the trees.

     Derek’s able to pick it out as breathing once he’s standing on the porch. There’s maybe a moment of indecision complimented with his barefooted pacing. He worries that it could be hunters. This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve tried to lure them out like this. This is before he hears the whimper-ish noise, before he takes off like a shot. His toes uprooting grass and his feet sounding like hooves beating the earth.

     It’s his boy- of course. And it turns out it’s a struggle to breath that he’d heard, not an actually rapid succession. Derek would know his boy’s voice anywhere. It sounds like heaven and singing.

 

-

 

     Stiles’ arms are sprawled out in a stretch across the maroon sheets. His legs wrapped lazily around Derek’s waist as he beats a relentless pace inside of him. Derek’s hands press all over his boy’s writhing form, grips his hip as his boy arches beautifully under him. The pallor that normally adorns his skin is dirtied with smudges ruddy as blood, the speckles of dark continue endlessly like tiny drips of ink on a scroll wrapped and coalesced into his being.

     “ _Minemineminemine_.” His words meld into his boy’s throat, under his jaw. It’s like he’s begging- pleading for his heart to concede. For his lover- his fire. Beseeching.

 

     “ _Pleaseplease- always; love you so much_ ,” Stiles’ words are breathless with too much air and crying with too much pleasure.

 

     With the acceptance he growls thoroughly, can feel the excitement rattle through his lover’s heart and bones. He bites his boy’s chin, hard enough to bleed and continues up to kiss the blood into the boy’s mouth, a bright blue reflecting along Stiles’ sweat-slicked skin and in his burning eyes.

 

-

 

     “So how do you know my name exactly?” His boy, his amazing boy with a voice like heaven and skin like clouds and eyes like fire, was looking at him. At Derek dead in the eyes, with a type of furtive confidence and curiosity.

 

     How did he know the name of his heart? This is the first he’s actually speaking to him, he can’t say the truth. That he’d heard other teenagers mention it after he’d followed his boy’s scent to the town’s high school. Most humans dislike that, the truth, and he doesn’t want his boy to deny him. Derek thinks he might have to kill himself if he couldn’t have him. It’d be the fate of his own heart rejecting his body, rejecting him; it’d kill him. He can’t tell the truth. Not 100% at least.

     “People talk.” Stiles looks pleased, whether it’s because he thinks people talk about him, good or bad, or it’s something else completely unrelated he’s not sure. Derek finds himself pleased, preening, in fact, that he’d made his world a little brighter.

 

     “So you save me from dying in the middle of the woods- maybe even from hypothermia, who knows, you bring me back to your house- the old Hale House, and apparently set me up in your own  _bed_ after I pass out, _wait while you watch me sleep_ , and _then_ you quote T.V. shows at me.” He’s quiet for a moment, seemingly assessing something, “Either I’m really fucking high still, or this is a really weird dream.”

 

     “It’d be a good dream I hope.” Fuck. He didn’t mean to say that. He does, but just- He doesn’t talk to humans, it’s hard to get a grasp on what they don’t like and he doesn’t know if that was too much, he doesn’t know how to- And he can feel his heart running, and he can hear his boy’s heart hasten slightly, though Derek focuses on the dirty floorboards.

 

     “I- yeah,” Derek looks up quickly, “it’d be good. Better if it were real.” There’s meaning behind those. Derek knows it; he knows it in the continued staccato of his boy’s heart, like the not-quite breathing the very night previous.

 

     His boy is staring with such a wide and shy grin that he can’t help himself. Derek smiles. He hasn’t smiled in the longest time, not like this. He has his heart. Has it so entirely, he can tell. Stiles’ grin goes full watt, a huge smile, white teeth as pale as his skin and the fire in his eyes roar in pleasure. His insides feel like a comb going through coarse, hot fur and his stomach feels like it’s bundling.

     “I don’t own a T.V.” Derek’s boy laughs as bright as his eyes, his teeth, his skin, his hair. For a moment Derek’s world is perfect in all ways he could imagine.

 

-

 

     Derek’s free hand comes up to hold his boy’s face, thumb petting his jaw, pressing into forming bruises, smudging blood by accident here and there. His boy’s blood is sour and drying all the time, like lemonade. It’s an oddity, but his boy is perfect. His boy is perfect like the sun against the ocean. Perfect like a brilliance unparalleled and ethereal with beauty like fog wafting through the trees. Perfect like nothing Derek’s ever seen. His blood is perfect.

     He still drives into his boy with force. Enough that Stiles’ backbone bows even more taut, curving tightly to his left, with his mouth open, spewing chants of Derek’s name repeatedly- reverently, even. His hands find themselves somehow and begin to brace upon Derek’s back, his shoulders. When Derek moves his hand from the small of his boy’s back to his face with the other, one of Stiles’ cards lightly through the hair on the back of Derek’s head.

     “ _Love- love- love you_ ,” His boy’s voice stutters like a dove, interrupted by the motions they’re in. “ _so- fucking much, Der- fuck_ ,”

 

     That tight, hot feeling rises up, smothering his skin. His boy is so perfect, so amazing. He’s desperate and dedicated and perfect and amazing. In the dim light Stiles’ lips look the color of cranberries, glinting slightly from spit and still-drying blood. His pupils are tiny things, like grains of sand held up to the sun.

     “ _Stiles, I’m_ -“

 

     “ _Yesyesyes, I want it, I wanna smell like you inside, wanna be yoursplease_ ,” Derek fucking loves his boy; presses his tongue up his boy’s chin and into his mouth again, taking the rest of the tangy metallic sour with it.

 

-

 

     Derek’s nose has a thing for sharpness. He’s a Werewolf, it comes with the territory. Stiles smells sour certain times. Not strongly and not very sharply, but it lingers. It trails into Derek’s house like a rat smuggling aboard a ship. It makes him curious, to say the least, that it’s only there sometimes, and only when he arrives. The scent dying like a draught once he settles down long enough.

     His arms though, that’s where it goes when he removes his hooded jacket. Right up in the pit of his elbow. His shirt is a rich brown and he breathes sweet when his arms are sour. His boy is beautiful when he sits assuredly on the edge of Derek’s mattress, looking like he belongs so much to Derek and his space. He loves it.

     His boy smiles and Derek feels a sort of clarity at his lively expressions. It disappears though when Derek grips his arm around the elbow, bringing his nose into that spot. The marks are small and dot-ish there, a deeper color than his ivory skin. It’s peculiar and curious, but Derek knows what it means.

     “You’ll destroy yourself.” His perfect beautiful boy takes his arm with some propulsion; makes Derek want to whine from the loss and distress for his heart. He reaches out for what’s his but Stiles retracts back toward the window of the house’s front, pulling himself inward.

 

     “Hopefully.” Derek wants to die with those words. His boy who surpasses heaven is amazing in every way. He’ll die for his boy not to, he-

 

     “Then I will too.” It feels like begging. Like his heart is going to reject him, like panic and something childish. But his boy’s breath breaks in chunks, stutters like a dove, until Derek’s arms nearly wring him out.

 

     “Then I’ll stop sometime.” He’s never seen the quicksilver from his boy’s eyes, never thought it possible that fire could give rain, but here he is collecting tears with his thumb, mouth pressed to his boy’s forehead.

 

     “When?”

 

     “Whenever it has me.” It seems ominous, like waiting for death.

 

-

 

     The air feels hollow but charged all at once. Like something ominous. But his boy is looking dazedly at him, eyes half lidded with so much euphoria. That fire burns brighter and Derek ignores the air for his heart. Beautiful and sated. Warm.

     “You should get me food.” His boy’s hand twitches to the side some, patting Derek’s arm and chest. It’s an easy smile that lulls his boy’s face like a dandelion’s seed taken up loftily by its pappus. He’s something white and pure, nobility spotting him hither and thither, something simple and complex and easy and so damn wondrous. Like snow. Exactly like snow when cardinals rest and sing and sparrows flit about.

 

     Derek hums mocking contemplation before setting his lips on Stiles’ and murmuring acquiescence. He moves from the bed sluggishly, pulling all of his clothes back on. Derek kisses him once more before leaving out the motel door.

     “Go back to sleep.” He closes the door finally, taking a light jog to his car.

 

-

 

     “You should get an apartment or something so that I can finally live with you.” His boy’s head lolls back onto Derek’s shoulder. Honesty a severity upon his face. Derek licked his lips, anticipation more so than hesitancy or some kind of refusal. He could never refuse his heart.  

 

     “What about your father?” He looked curiously on as his boy’s fire shifted on to something morose. It upset him, reeled his thoughts to focus on his words.

 

     “That night.” The meaning caught to him. He was out in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods. Derek never asked, and Stiles never said anything.

 

     “Where.”

 

     “Scott, my friend. Then just random spots when I wasn’t with you.” His boy’s fire was still extinguishing slowly. Somber and Derek wouldn’t let this continue. His boy is bright and unafraid. He holds the wrath of god like flipping a coin; he burns questions out of everything with ferocious curiosity.

 

     “I will. Tomorrow morning. You’ll come.” His boy’s smile is soft and small. Like dandelions and sparrows. His boy pressed lips to his, humming languidly. “I love you.” Derek has to whisper it, he has to.

    

     “I know.”

 

-

 

     The closer he gets to the door the more he can feel the panic rising to his skull. He didn’t even take anything from the car when he parked. He could already hear the silence. Once he gets the door open he can just hear his boy’s pulse, soft and desperate. He’s breathing slower than he ever has, even asleep.

     “Stiles,” The mattress creaks from the force he’s thrown himself with.

 

     His boy was laying as if he’d fallen asleep in the middle of pulling the comforter over himself. His lips and fingertips felt cool. Too much, too much.

 

     “Stiles, wake up, come on.” The heat dropping down his face doesn't feel physical. It feels like air. Like the fucking air. Suffocating. Psychological. He shakes his boy lightly one more time.

 

     “Stiles- please,” His boy looks quaint. Soft and quiet. Still perfect. Amazing. From heaven, still. Birds and parchment and water and fire.

 

     He rubs his face quickly with one hand. It still smells faintly of tangy metallic sour. His body tenses, claws grasps the mattress. He rips a good portion from the rest while his throat burns around a howl. There’s rage boiling under his skin. He feels like tearing things apart, everything. He paces back and forth holding his head with claws and clammy palms. The fingertips felt sticky.

     When he turns around all he can see is his heart. Just perfect and dead. There’s a decision, within a second there’s a decision. He moves fast, as fast as possible. That he imagines, at least. Derek wraps Stiles in the comforter, not wasting time with the complexity of clothes, and carries him hurriedly through the lot to his car. He sits his heart in the front passenger, took enough time for a seat belt. He needs to see him. Needs to see him. There’s fire under those lids, he knows it. Teeth whiter than porcelain and a laugh that would put angels to shame. He knows this. It’s not over yet, no matter how feint he’s getting.

     Maybe he speeds.

     But then maybe he gets to the hospital in less than twenty minutes.

 

     He carries his boy, wrapped in an ugly brown authentic patch comforter, in through the doors with such frenetic urgency the two desk nurses quickly focus on him, one pulling from a young woman with a bleeding arm.

     “Heroin.” He says to them gruffly. The young injured woman looks shocked and distinctly of sorrow while repulsed all at once. He’d honestly rather the indignation.

 

     His heart hung limply in his arms, breathing not rising but not lowering either. His heart rate was slightly rising, though he has no clue whether that’s better or not. He hopes so. Without his heart he’ll die.

     Both nurses yell out for others he assumes. Not paying attention to his surroundings while his… everything, while he’s dying in his fucking arms, he supposes that’s a fault. He’s slid to the floor, Stiles still held tightly in his arms, on his sprawled legs. Derek is crying. He can feel it. It’s hot and weary. He doesn’t think- maybe this is what fevers feel like. It tails down his face onto Stiles’. His hands are somehow still shaking. Even with the blanket being clutched nearly to shreds, they’re shaking.

     There’s a gurney suddenly, and people milling around. Another nurse looks like she’s going to weep, tears racing down her own face like his. She has kind eyes and kind hands. She looks like she’s just lost her heart.

     “I need- sir, I need to take him. We have to help him.” Her voice is choked. She’s beautiful, almost like Stiles. She’s more earthly, though. Stiles is not of this world. He’s amazing.

 

     He somehow managed to climb to his feet still holding 120lbs of limp teenage boy. It’s a struggle, surprisingly. Emotions. But Derek nods fervently, trying to hold in his own sobs. He lays Stiles on the gurney, doctors and nurses flitting around like sparrows. There’s now a scab on Stiles’ chin. He thumbs it lightly. Tries to listen for his heart but can’t with all the noise.

     They’re nudging him, attempting to just remove him from Stiles. He has to remind himself that they’re going to help. Before he assents their prodding he leans down, kissing Stiles lightly. He feels the remaining tears pelting Stiles’ face. His slack face. Still beautiful. Storm-like, even.

     The wheeled monstrosity began to leave as he began to straighten his posture. Derek’s hand trailed up Stiles’ face and through his whorled hair. Light like heaven on his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> If there're any errors with spelling or punctuation, also please let me know.
> 
> Thank you for your time UwU


End file.
